Still, perhaps there was something providential in Meisser’s promotion. He was weak-willed and easily dominated, the kind of man who preferred to let others fight his battles for him. Although Meisser was witch hunter captain of Wurtbad, Thulmann had assumed command of his investigation of the scarecrow murders after deflating his pomposity with a few threats. Like all brutal, incompetent men who were given power only to abuse it, Meisser lived in terror of his superiors and of losing his prestigious position. Thulmann had exploited that fear before. He would do so again to find Das Buch die Unholden.
One thing Thulmann had to credit Meisser for was his excellent record keeping. It seemed every detail of every confession ever extracted during his tenure had been saved, to judge by Thulmann’s previous inspection. A man with such a rat-trap mind could not fail to have a listing of licensed wizards and mystics among his documents. Wilhelm Klausner might have entrusted the unholy book to just about anyone, but something told Thulmann that his confidant was a practitioner of the arcane arts. There was nothing solid to lead him to such a conviction, only an idea that could not be rooted, however he tried to rationalise it away.
A wizard? Would Klausner really have entrusted a wizard with something as dreadfully potent as this grimoire was supposed to be? No witch hunter trusted those who dabbled in magic, for all magic was born of Chaos, the great enemy of Sigmar and of the Empire. Licensed wizards were barely tolerated but deemed a necessary evil by some, heavily monitored where possible, watched for the first hint of corruption. But Klausner had himself been corrupted, meddling with powers far more sinister than anything a student of the colleges of magic was permitted to call upon. Yes, such a man could very well have given Das Buch die Unholden to a wizard, reasoning that only such a man could keep it safe from Sibbechai.
Thulmann extracted himself from his thoughts, reining his horse before the main door of the chapter house. He dismounted, striding to the door, his gloved hand pounding on the stained oak. After a moment, an elderly servant opened the door, staring suspiciously until he recognised the Sigmarite emblems on Thulmann’s hat and clothing.
“I’ve come to indulge Captain Meisser’s hospitality,” Thulmann stated, stepping across the threshold. The old servant, Eldred, could not quite hide the smile fighting to appear on his face. After rescuing Meisser’s investigation and bringing Chanta Favna to trial, Thulmann had become something of a hero in Wurtbad — not least to the men of the chapter house, who felt he had salvaged their honour along with the investigation.
“Welcome back, Brother Mathias,” the old man said, bowing his head. “I’ll have a boy take your horse to the stable.” The servant reached for Thulmann’s hat and cloak, but the witch hunter waved him away. It was, perhaps, a little indulgent of him, but he wanted to present as imposing a presence as he could when he once again set eyes on Meisser.
“You’ll find Captain Meisser in his study,” the old man told him. This time the smile couldn’t be resisted. “He has company already. A lady friend,” the servant grinned, hurrying away to arrange the care of Thulmann’s steed.
Thulmann looked down the hallway that would conduct him to Meisser’s study. A lady friend? Meisser had a decided lack of concern for the plague ravaging his city. Even for a heretic like Gamow, it was an act of audacity to promote such a reptile to the rank of captain.
Thulmann did not bother to announce himself, but simply pushed open the door of the study. The room was opulently furnished, dominated by the massive wooden desk that sprawled across its centre. Bookcases crammed with folios and loosely bound documents sat at each flank. There had been at least one change to the decor. On the wall behind the desk had once hung a portrait of Meisser himself, which Thulmann had gently mocked upon his last visit. The witch hunter smiled to see that Meisser had had the painting removed.
There had been one other change. Meisser was not alone. Seated behind the desk was a striking young woman, her flaxen hair gathered about her face like the halo of a saint. A glass of wine rested among the clutter of documents across the surface of the desk. The deskwork commanded her complete attention and she did not look up as Thulmann made his entrance. The fawning figure that hovered about her, fetching documents from the shelves, did, however. Meisser looked despondent as he recognised his unexpected visitor.
“Br-Brother Mathias,” Meisser sputtered. “I- we did not expect you to return so soon.” Meisser’s words caused the woman to look up from her work. Her piercing gaze focused upon the visitor, a faint smile appearing on her face.
“Mathias Thulmann,” her soft voice observed. “This is indeed an honour.” Thulmann removed his hat, handing the garment to Meisser. Meisser stared at it for a moment, before carefully setting it down in an unoccupied chair.
“It appears you have me at a disadvantage,” Thulmann silkily confessed. “You seem to know me, but I can’t remember our having met. I am certain I would not forget such an event.”
The woman rose from behind the desk. She was tall, with clothes more suited to a young rake out prowling the taverns than a woman of her station. Yet the incongruity did nothing to diminish her qualities. Knee-high boots and red leather breeches clung to her long, lean legs. A shirt of soft white fabric, its sleeves sporting the extravagant frills currently in fashion among the nobility, rose above the silver-trimmed belt that circled her slender waist. Above the shirt, she wore a black leather vest, the straps unbuckled where the garment constrained the swell of her breast. About her neck hung a brooch set in snakeskin, the rampant griffin insignia of Igor Markoff engraved upon the gleaming bauble. A heart-shaped face rose above the circle of snakeskin, framed by locks of flaxen hair.
Like a startled spider, Meisser scuttled out of the woman’s way. She extended a delicate hand to Thulmann. “Silja Markoff,” she introduced herself. “I am the Lord High Justice’s daughter,” she added when she saw his eyes grow thoughtful. “You did a great service for my father by exposing the witch Favna.”
Thulmann lifted her hand to his lips. “I did only what was expected of me,” he said. “What my oaths have demanded I do.” A thin smile appeared on his hawkish face. “So, tell me, what brings Silja Markoff to be entertained by the esteemed Captain Meisser at so lonely an hour?”
Seizing the opportunity, Meisser’s nervous voice slipped in before she could compose an answer. “I have decided to coordinate my current investigation with the Ministry of Justice. Lady Markoff is helping me examine the methods and procedures practised by my men. The Ministry is somewhat concerned that we are being more zealous than efficient in our work.”
Thulmann was quietly impressed. It was the closest to an admission of incompetence he had ever heard from Meisser. The witch hunter turned his attention back to Lady Markoff. She must have had a very powerful personality to crush Meisser’s arrogance so thoroughly. He could well understand why Markoff s daughter could also be his most trusted and capable agent.
“Captain Meisser is convinced that the plague afflicting Wurtbad is not a natural phenomenon,” Silja stated, tossing one solitary crumb of comfort. “In the event that he is correct, my father wants to assist in his investigation. To that end, I have been examining the records of his investigation so far. Pointing out his errors,” she shot the witch hunter captain a scornful glare, “and his excesses.”
Thulmann could well imagine. Unable to uncover Chanta Favna and her sorcerous assassin, Meisser had resorted to torturing and executing anyone even rumoured to be a witch, condemning far too many innocent men, women and children to death. It seemed Meisser was making just as little progress with the plague and had resorted to his old tactics of deception. Thulmann’s face mirrored the disgust in Silja’s eyes.
“That explains my presence,” she said. “What brings you back to our city, Brother Mathias, at so inopportune a time?”
“My investigation in Klausberg has led me back to Wurtbad,” Thulmann declared simply. “I had hoped the chapter house might be able to assist me in my labours.”
“You can help me,” Thulmann said. “The man I am looking for is probably a licensed wizard.” Meisser nodded his head like an agreeable idiot. “I want to go over the records of every one of them residing in Wurtbad.” The smile faded from Meisser’s face. There were not many wizards in the city, but they were powerful men, and not just in the field of magic and sorcery. They also wielded considerable influence as advisors and helpmates to the big guilds and trading houses. Even Baron von Gotz had a wizard among his court. Hunting down and bringing to justice lone witches and warlocks was one thing, but Meisser was not terribly eager to begin harassing real wizards. The thought of the political scandal the mystics might bring crashing down about his ears made the prospect of fighting Chanta Favna’s blade-handed scarecrow seem pleasant by comparison.
“I shall get the documents you require,” Meisser said, his enthusiasm already curling up and dying inside him. The witch hunter captain rummaged about the shelves of the bookcases for several minutes. He returned with a bundle of parchment sheets bound by string.
“We have complete histories of each wizard, at which of the schools of magic he studied, who his instructors were, and his accomplishments after being released from the colleges of magic. We need to know, of course, who it is we are dealing with, should one of these men become corrupted by the dark forces they study and turn renegade.” Thulmann waved Meisser aside, grabbing the stack of papers.
The witch hunter smiled as he read the topmost document. Sig-mar was truly going out of his way to assist him. Some names had been crossed out with thick black strokes as the wizards they represented had died or moved out of the city. But one name stood out and Thulmann knew it was the one he was looking for.
“Wolfram Kohl,” Thulmann read. Wilhelm Klausner’s steward and accomplice in his acts of heresy had been a man named Ivar Kohl. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The witch hunter handed the stack of documents back to Meisser, his finger resting on the name. “I want to know everything that you know about this man.”
Streng led his prize away from the Splintered Skull tavern, his arm wrapped about her waist. The mercenary greeted the few men who crossed their path with a predatory scowl that made them increase their pace. He studied the shop signs swaying in the cold night breeze. Getting his bearings, the thug turned his companion toward a narrow alley that opened onto the street. The woman hesitated.
“Just what kind of tart do you take me for?” her shrill, girlish voice demanded. “I ain’t no animal to be rutted in some gutter!”
“I’ll wager you’ve done worse,” the mercenary chuckled, his hand dropping from her shoulders to deliver a playful swat to her flank. The harlot squealed in surprise. “Worry not. I know a place where the rooms are cheap and the fleas are small.” Streng slapped the woman’s backside again. “Now move your arse along before I lose my patience!” he growled. The woman squeaked in mock fright and hurried into the alleyway. Streng chuckled, following her into the darkness. Their laughter died, however, when his companion uttered a gasp of alarm, then a grunt of pain. Streng hurried forward, drawing his sword from its sheath.
Around the dark corner of the alley, he found the woman sprawled on the cobbles, curled into a foetal position, her arms cradling her chest. Standing over her was a man in a ragged black coat. Streng recognised him as the weak-looking young man who had been entertaining the woman in the Splintered Skull, before Streng had appropriated her. A muddy boot kicked at the woman’s back before he turned to face Streng.
“We’ll finish our talk in a moment, strumpet,” the rogue snapped. “After I have words with your lover man.” Streng glared at his foe, taking a few careful steps to place the corner of the alleyway within easy reach. It was all well and good to fight for the honour of a lady, but Streng didn’t think his companion had all that much honour — nor was she much of a lady. If Black Coat decided to produce a pistol from his pocket, a quick dive and an even faster sprint would see Streng back on the main street.
“Grew some bollocks, I see,” Streng snarled. Black Coat’s face split in a hateful glare. The man’s hand fell to his side and Streng braced himself to dive. He almost sighed with relief when he saw his enemy pull a sword from its sheath.
“I don’t brawl with scum,” Black Coat announced. “I kill them.” A murderous smile twisted Streng’s features.
“Funny,” Streng growled, “I’ve always try to follow the same rule.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A dark figure detached itself from the shadows, slinking across a black alley to conceal itself in an arched doorway. The heavily cloaked man cast a furtive sidelong gaze back along whence that he came, flicking a stray lock of greasy hair from his pallid, sickly face. Satisfied that he was unobserved, he gave his attention to the ironbound oak door looming beside him. Pale hands fumbled in the innards of a leather satchel, producing a desiccated claw bound in mouldering wrappings.
Strange, unclean words belonging to a tongue known only to the blackest sorcerers slithered from the necromancer’s lips. Carandini’s eyes blazed in the shadows as the unholy power passed through him. The claw, the dismembered hand of the tomb king Nehb-ka-Menthu, began to scratch at the oak, digging runes and hexes into the wood. Carandini smiled as he read the ancient hieroglyphs. The wizard’s house was indeed protected by wards, but they were weak and feeble, wasted by neglect. How very different from the protective spells the Klausners had woven about their own home. In some ways, the necromancer almost felt insulted, that final victory should be bestowed upon him with such ease.
The claw grew still, and Carandini restored it to his bag. More words dripped from his tongue and the hieroglyphs scratched upon the door flared suddenly into flame. A moment passed and the flames were gone, leaving behind blackened outlines of the symbols. The necromancer removed a small packet of grey powder from one of the pockets concealed within his heavy cassock. The mummy’s hand had done its work, calling upon the dread sorcery of the long-dead Nehekhara. The feeble wards placed upon the house were no more.
Carandini cast the powder upon the bronze lock that glared from the side of the door. The necrotic powder worked its fell magic, devouring the metal and the wood surrounding it, corroding both surfaces as though the weight of a thousand centuries had aged them in an instant. The necromancer pushed open the door as the foul, black residue of the lock dripped to the ground.
He stepped across the threshold, into the small parlour that connected the dreary side entrance to the inner chambers of the house. Carandini enjoyed the faint, musty smell of old books and piled dust. The smell of scholarship. For a sorcerer, he believed, it was the smell of treasure.
Thoughts of avarice and power withered within the crooked corridors of Carandini’s mind, as another smell overwhelmed the mustiness. The odour of death and decay pounded his senses, his pale skin prickling with goosebumps as an unnatural chill crawled up his flesh. Even the feeble light cast by the streetlamp outside seemed to grow dimmer. Without turning around, Carandini knew there was something standing behind him. Just across the threshold, something tall and gaunt and unholy.
“Do not think to cheat me, necromancer,” Sibbechai’s rasping voice snarled. Carandini turned upon his partner, his smug smile fighting against his unease.
“Such a strange peculiarity,” he mused. “The great Sibbechai, lord of sorcery and the black arts. A centuries-old vampire with the strength of ten men in his withered arms. Yet you stand helpless to enter a si
mple dwelling.” His smile grew as he considered the curse that was part of the necrarch’s taint. So strong was the hate of life within the necrarchs that the creatures were incapable of entering any structure that man made his home.
Some said the curse had been placed upon the vampiric sorcerers by the gods themselves, that the necrarchs might be thwarted in their diseased schemes. Others held that the power that bound them came from a far fouler source — the accursed one, the supreme necromancer, Nagash the Black, that his undying slaves might never again linger among the living and be distracted from their profane studies. That no seed of sympathy might somehow take root within the putrid remnants of their hearts. Whatever its source, no vampire sorcerer could cross any man’s threshold unless first invited by one who was already inside.
“Reconsider this folly, mortal,” the vampire warned, its smouldering eyes glowing in the dark. Carandini’s bravado flickered as the corpse-like visage snarled at him. Sibbechai’s burning eyes seared into the necromancer’s brain, driving foreign thoughts into his mind. “Invite me across,” Sibbechai repeated.
For a moment, Carandini’s body trembled, struggling to resist the command that thundered inside his skull. Slowly, the Tilean’s lips parted. Against his will, words began to wheeze from his mouth. He tried to force them back down, but they were spoken before they could be stopped. “Enter this house freely, and of your own accord.”
[Mathias Thulmann 02] - Witch Finder Page 6
